“It’s a miracle drug, Sara. It’s unbelievable. He’s gained weight. He’s actually put pounds on.”
“But AZT isn’t a cure, remember. It just slows cell replication down.”
“We’re biding our time until the vaccine.”
“The vaccine isn’t anything to count on either, Willie. The vaccine
is still far off. We’ve got to keep looking for other ideas. Other treatments.”
“They’ve got to be close. Aren’t doctors working around the clock in labs all over the world?”
“They’re making progress. Dr. Picard will be one of the first to know. When is your ticket for Delhi?”
“In two weeks. Crazy, huh? I can’t go. How can I go to India right now?”
“Go to India and do the book research.”
“I can’t leave Luke.”
“He’s got Gaird. He’s got me. He’s got Picard. He’s healthier than you or I am, for God’s sake, right now. His T cells are up around eight hundred. Willie, if you don’t go, I will be so pissed off at you. You need to go for your book and your career and your sanity. For all of our sanities. You need to get out of Paris. Please. Please do this for me. You can’t just hang around waiting for Macon to call you.”
“If I go, I’ll never see Macon again. What if he finally calls, and I’m out of the country? Then everything we had will be over.”
“It will just be on pause. That’s how I’m thinking of it—as a pause.”
“A very long pause. I’m trying to give him up.”
“Well, you can’t do that until you talk to him. You’ve got to call him.”
“He won’t listen.”
“How do you know unless you make the phone call and get him on the line and say your piece? Say what’s in your heart? Maybe he’s got pride. Maybe he’s just waiting for you.”
“Maybe he’s beyond forgiveness.”
“Go to India then and lose yourself in that.”
“Will you be Luke’s person if I go? Will you call him and call Gaird and visit?”
“Of course I will.”
We walk for an hour. There are dark mallards on the river with black-oiled heads. Mallards in Paris? Theirs must be a long migration. I put Sara in a cab back up on the bridge and kiss her cheeks
through the open window, both sides twice. “I love you.” I’m so glad I remembered to actually say it. Maybe that’s all there is in the end—the speaking of the love.
Her pregnancy and how big she is make her even more lovable. Vulnerable. Wise and powerful all at once. It raises things up—makes me want to hug her and tell her what an amazing mother she’ll be. I tap the top of the cab as it pulls away. Then I start walking home.
What’s Sophie doing at the center right now? Even if she never forgives me—even if I never see her again, I miss her. I cross over the bridge to the Right Bank and walk until I get to the shops around Les Halles and the enormous metro station. Then I take Boulevard de Sébastopol for another half hour to Rue de Metz. I stand across the street from the asylum center, inside the Syrian sandwich shop. There are two metal spits that spin meat by the door. I hope Esther’s getting ready for her hearing. It would be great if she could practice speaking really loudly. Precy will be fine in the courtroom. But you can hardly hear Esther unless she speaks up. Zeena and Rateeka will need translators who are willing to show real emotion in front of the judge. What am I doing here? Is this my life? Underneath it all every day is this longing to hear Macon’s voice. To have him move the bangs out of my eyes.
I walk across the alley to ring the buzzer and ask Sophie for forgiveness. All I have to do is tell her how sorry I am and say what’s in my heart. I stand in front of the door and will something to happen—someone to come in or out. Someone to see me on the surveillance camera. Then I get scared. I feel foolish. What if Sophie won’t even let me in? I turn around and I don’t stop walking until I’m home. All that time I’m missing Macon. Angry at Macon. He left me. How could he just walk? But when I pick at it a little and stare it down, I know I’m really angry at my mother. Angry and so sad that she’s gone and I’m here, making all these bad choices.
I
N THE MORNING
I make piles on the floor in my bedroom for India. I’m taking Sara’s advice. Getting ready for my trip. It feels more
satisfying than I thought—T-shirts and two pairs of wide cotton pants, plus a long, dark cotton skirt. It’s Pablo’s birthday today. I know this because weeks ago Macon drew a heart around July 2 on the calendar and wrote the words “Pablo’s Day” in the small white square.
Rajiv calls at ten-thirty. Sara’s in labor. They’re on their way to a birthing center near the Bois de Boulogne. “Oh my God!” I yell into the phone on my bed. “She’s early! She’s early! How much is she dilated? Oh my God.”
“We won’t know until we’re there,” Rajiv says calmly. How can he be this contained? Where is his urgency?
“I’m not leaving the apartment until you call me back and say that you have a baby!”
“Of course. Of course we will call you.” He’s eerily calm. Then I realize maybe he’s play-acting for Sara—that she’s probably sitting next to him in the cab with her eyes closed. Maybe terrified. Except Sara doesn’t really get terrified.
I hang up the phone. She’s having a baby. I call Luke and he doesn’t answer. I’m frantic but it’s a good frantic. Euphoric even. A baby. I blast the
Graceland
album on the turntable and pack and repack the small pile of clothes in the backpack Macon surprised me with in May. Then I take on the books. Make preliminary piles of the ones I want to bring to India. Too many books. This will call for a whole other backpack. The music’s so loud and I keep dancing in circles next to the couch and jumping. I add books to the pile and jump up and down and check the clock by the bed.
Then I can’t stand it anymore, and I pick up the phone in the bedroom and call the legal center. He’s not there. I don’t leave a message.
People say love takes time. But I also think it can be something decisive at the start. A man walks into an asylum center. He has wet hair and wears dark green hiking boots. You don’t know that you’re going to end up sleeping on a beach with him. You just know you’re open to it. What do you call this? Not love. But something foundational maybe, before love. It all looks better, sweeter now that the baby’s coming. I feel reckless. Why haven’t I called him until now?
What am I waiting for? It’s not going to get better by waiting. I need to tell him how much he’s meant to me. No matter what happens, I need to say it.
Another hour passes. No word from Rajiv. I call Macon at his house. Sara’s having her baby. How can he not know? He’s part of my family, even if I never see him again. Someone picks up on the second ring and I ask for Macon in French. “Willie?” Macon says. “It’s me.”
“Sara’s in labor, Macon!” I talk loudly and fast. “She’s having the baby! The baby’s coming! Can you believe it?” I don’t know if he’ll even listen to me.
“That’s great news,” he says slowly and quietly. Then his voice brightens. “Well, over here we’ve eaten the cake and the ice cream and had the pony ride in the yard behind the house.”
“You’re talking to me.” I try to make my voice sound loose. But my heart is in his hands. I don’t want to sound hopeful. “I didn’t know you were talking to me.” I don’t want my love to spill over and overwhelm him.
He ignores what I’ve said. “It’s Pablo’s birthday, and you must have known that. We’ve spent the week here in Chantilly with Delphine and Gabriel.”
My heart’s beating in my throat. “Happy birthday to Pablo.” I almost cry but don’t allow myself to because I’m afraid I’ll throw Macon off. Please let me in, I want to say. Don’t keep me out.
“My boy is five.”
“He is a sweet boy. Tell him I said that.” What I want to say is, When are you coming back? Are you ever coming back? “I screwed it up. I miss you, Macon. Can you forgive this? Can you let it go?”
“Merde,”
he says. “I didn’t want to talk about this. I didn’t want to talk to you. I still think what you did was stupid. But I won’t waste my time on that right now. Because today is a good day.”
“I’m so sorry.” I say it again, and the words aren’t enough. This is the thing about words. They fail. But you still have to use them. “I’m sorry that I lied. That I ruined things at work for you.” I’m trying to tamp down my joy about the baby. Trying not to scare him.
“You did a good job of that. We’ve had so many damn meetings since you let your student fly away. How is your brother? I have been very concerned.”
“He’s steady. He’s having what Sara calls a summer reprieve.”
“More good news. That is tremendous. When will you know about Sara’s baby?”
“As soon as Rajiv calls me back.”
“Then you should probably get off the phone in case Rajiv’s trying to reach you.”
“You’re trying to rid yourself of me?” I pretend to joke. But I feel sick. It’s such a thin line connecting me to him.
“Call me. When the baby’s born. Please call me.”
“I will. I will do that,” I say. I can’t tell yet. I can’t tell if he’s really softening to me. But he hasn’t hung up. He hasn’t yelled.
“Good. I’ll be waiting.”
Then I pace my apartment. I reorganize all the books and notes for India. Maybe I’ll hardly bring any books. Just notepaper and copies of Sarojini’s papers, and some Tolstoy to read on the long train rides when I’m alone. I go into the kitchen and do a full assessment of the fridge. We have lots of tomatoes. We have onions. We have cheese. I make lasagna and place the glass dish in the oven. How many babies born two weeks early have complications? How long does the average labor last? Is she in extraordinary pain? For how long? How long?
The phone rings. I run from the dining table to the bedroom and do a full leap onto the bed to grab it. “Rajiv? Is it you?”
“Baby girl and mother are both doing very well.”
“A girl! You have a girl!” I scream.
“She’s a funny little girl. She didn’t even cry at first.” He’s still so calm.
“Oh God, I’m so happy for you guys! You’re a father, Rajiv.”
“She studied us as if she’d been expecting to see us. Then she let out a battle cry that told us how hungry she was. Her name is Lily Rouse Amarnath.”
“Two weeks early! How is Sara? Is she really okay?”
“Sara’s sleeping, and so is the baby right now. Maybe I should try to sleep. We’re going to be back in the apartment tonight.”
“Tonight? So soon?”
“It’s hallucinatory, I tell you. I’ve never done drugs, but I feel like I’m on something. We’re going home because Sara’s never wanted to sleep here. She wants us all to sleep in our own home.”
I hang up and call Luke and scream when he answers. “Sara’s had the baby! The baby’s here! She’s here!” Then he screams and I’m still screaming and I start to cry. Really cry. Because I’m happy. Finally some good news.
“Don’t cry. You’re supposed to be glad. You’ll make me get weepy and I hate the mess of it.”
“Tears of joy.” I sniffle into the phone. “And I know you’re crying too. It’s a girl. Lily Amarnath.”
“I love that name. When do we get to meet her?”
“Tonight. I’m going over to their place to hold the baby. I get to hold the baby! Come! You should come!”
“I’ll try. I really want to. But that means I’d need to pull myself together. Kiss her for me if I don’t make it. Give that baby a kiss for me.”
I
GET TO
Rue Lecourbe at seven and knock on their door. It’s as if time’s stopped in their living room. Sara sits on the couch holding the baby, and I watch how she surrenders to the girl. Then she hands her to me. God, don’t let me drop her. “Well, she’s beautiful,” I say. “She has black hair that sticks straight up from her head. Whose hair is that, Lily? Let’s hope it’s your mama’s. I think you’re perfect and that your parents should camp out in here with you and never go outside again.”
“She’s not kicking.” Sara laughs. “That means she likes you.”
I stare at Lily’s tiny lips. Rajiv pokes his head in the living room and announces he’s going for takeout. He waves at me. It’s the most we’ve talked since I let Gita walk away. Sara told me he was so angry for a while that he couldn’t speak to me.
“Mango chutney, please! Extra mango chutney!” Sara yells. “Money in my bag.” Then Rajiv’s gone in his sweatpants, and I walk the baby in circles in the dark kitchen.
“She’s stronger than you think, Willie. When she latches onto my boob it’s like she’s never letting go.”
“Watch your feet,” I say and lower myself down next to Sara on the couch. “I don’t want to hurt them.” Then we both sit and stare at the baby’s face. “She is you,” I laugh. “Those are your eyes, Sara.”
“You can’t tell yet. For one, her eyes are always closed, and two, they change every few weeks, I think.”
“It’s the shape of the lids and underneath the eyes that’s like you.”
Rajiv comes home with the food, wet from the rain but smiling. He has an easiness about him that I haven’t seen before, not in college in California, certainly not at his own formal, Indian wedding in London. “It’s the baby, guys. It’s Lily,” I say while he unpacks the bags. “She’s the first thing I’ve ever seen calm you both down. It’s so peaceful here.”
He gets out the bowls and forks and smiles, and I whisper things to the baby about how wonderful her parents are and how lucky she is to have them. No one talks about Gita or how mad Rajiv was when Sara told him what I’d done, and this is how I know I’ve been forgiven.
“You are going to Delhi! Delhi!” Sara says. “A great city! Curl up in some hotel and rest, Willie. Baby Lily and I both think you need to rest.”
“I’m going to be on the move, Sara. No nice hotels. It’s an austerity program. A research trip. It’s all about how long my money can last.”
“Well, don’t expect for one second to see India as an Indian. I’ve been trying for ten years to do that. I see Rajiv’s mother almost every day, and every day she makes it clear that I’m from away and they’re from here—their French version of India.”
The baby falls asleep in a basket on the dining table while we eat. Just the eating of the meal in their apartment feels sacred because there’s a baby with us. A baby with a round, bald Buddha head. Before I leave, I walk over to the bookshelf by the couch and take down that
Naipaul novel. Then I quickly pull Gita’s letters out and put them in my bag. No one says a word.